


part viii: SQUIRMING

by dweeblet



Series: Rooke to H1 [9]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anti-Android Sentiments (Detroit: Become Human), Awkward Flirting, Case Fic, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has PTSD, Coping, Developing Friendships, Dissociation, Enemies to Friends, Gavin Reed Not Being an Asshole, Gen, Hate Crimes, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 01:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18084827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: Hank has taught him a lot, more than any skill protocol download could ever hope to quantify in theoretical data. Hank gave him a life to call his own. For that, Connor is thankful beyond his capacity to express, even with a thousand languages in his data banks—but with that gratitude comes aching disappointment.But there's a case ahead of him and the thrill of the hunt swells, an ardent rumble through the channels of his veins. He has come to bed rage, violently, fervently—loyally. With teeth and nails and brutal strength pinning that ugly anger beneath him, making it utility.Because Hank has taught Connor to hate. And hate and hate and hate and hate—





	part viii: SQUIRMING

**Author's Note:**

> the official start of our second arc. here we go.

Gavin is fucking anxious just watching Connor. Poor fucker’s straddling this razor edge of obvious, hardcore dissociation and a goddamn nervous breakdown—and he doesn’t seem to know it. One minute the android’s pacing grooves into the carpet like a caged fucking animal, and the next he’s statue-still and pliant like he’d never got free in the first place. He’ll flip on a hair-trigger, and it’s freaking Gavin out. 

 

He understands  _ why _ —Jesus fucking Christ, he knows and it makes him  _ sick _ —but still. That doesn’t make him good at any of this, just knowing a little shit.  

 

They loaded up into the cruiser, sirens off, and got to driving as quick as they could—moving in on one of Gavin’s old contacts from the Before-Time, when he was shittier. A lot shittier. Being a recovering xenophobe has its perks, though—namely being that if some fucker wants to stage a senseless hate crime as a revenge-fueled hate crime, (yikes!) he knows exactly what kinds of bitches’d wanna try and pull it. It only took a hot minute for him to track down an old buddy. 

 

They’d stopped being friends not too long after the November Riots, but Gavin’s still got a favor or two to cash in, and doing recon within anti-android circles seemed like the best place to start testing his theory. He’s in on the posse, sort of, and he still has a couple of connections floating around, probably. Maybe it’s a long shot, but Gavin’s thinking it’s worth it. Con needs a goddamn distraction at the very least, or he’s gonna deadass fuckin’ explode.

 

The android’s given to twitching with all that nervous energy again, bouncing his leg like a goddamn grade-schooler on speed in the driver’s seat. His dark eyes are on the road right now, but they flick fast over the dashboard, give Gavin a side glance, then dart around someplace else again. His hands are wrung tight enough around the wheel Gavin can see some of the freaky bone-white plating underneath his skin. He’s in absolute shit shape to be chasing a lead—which is why Gavin’s asked him to pull over, and now they’re sitting awkwardly in a Taco Bell parking lot.

 

Too bad neither of them have the nuts to talk about That Thing like responsible people do. Not gonna blame either of ‘em, though.

 

For a long time they bask in the grumble of nearby traffic and the swishing trees and the birds and the people and all that shit. It’s kinda nice out, actually, if you forget about the whole. Thing. It’s  _ fucked _ in every way imaginable. It’s one thing to tease your sort-of-not-enemy about being the mother of all twinks, and it’s another thing for— _ that _ . To happen. 

 

It takes some goddamn doing, but he works himself up. “Are you gonna report it?” asks Gavin.

 

Connor says nothing. He doesn’t even take his hands off the wheel.

 

“What  _ are _ you gonna do?” Give him  _ something _ to work with, jeez.

 

Silence. “Is there anything  _ I _ can do, shithead?”

 

Not even a goddamn twitch.

 

“Maybe I ain’t the guy to say so, but it really fuckin’ helps to talk about it.” He swallows hard. “I’d know.”

 

How he’s expected to stay focused on the case at all is far over Gavin’s head—but they’ve got a job to do whether he likes it or not, and time’s a-wasting quicker than he’d like. He doesn’t know that Connor’s in the right headspace to be talking case work, but it might be enough to distract him. 

 

“Fine,” he relents, trying something new. “Hey Siri, what’ve you got on record for a Carey R. Blount?”

 

The android breaks from his reverie—finally!—with a twitchy little smirk, eyes passing over Gavin as he considers the question. “Carey Rachel Blount. Female, white, fifty years old.” He pauses, awaiting Gavin’s input. 

 

“Sounds ‘bout right.”

 

“Five foot eight and one hundred seventy-two point one pounds—easily manageable. She has a criminal record in Richmond, California for three counts disorderly conduct and one DUI, and a single assault. Two more complaints of disturbing the peace have been filed since she moved to Detroit, but no long-standing charges have been pressed. Currently unemployed and residing at twenty-nine-oh-nine Ritter Street.” Connor blinks, cocking his head, birdlike, to one side. “Is she the contact you’ve chosen to investigate?”

 

“Yeah,” replies Gavin, tapping his fingers on his thigh. “I was gonna go with that, uh, Zhang fucker, but apparently he’s been in the slammer for a good year now, Red Ice charges’n shit.”

 

“Oh. I should have ruled him out for you earlier.” Connor laments, practiced relaxation fading somewhat from his voice. “Cyberlife is no longer updating my database. I need to request proper access to the DCPD’s files at some point…” He looks vaguely angry, still, brows furrowed and mouth pressed thin. “I should not have forgotten.”

 

Gavin makes a face himself. “Don’t be like that, asshole.” He sucks at being all gentle and nurturing and shit, but Connor definitely fucking needs  _ something _ , so he softens the jab. “Seriously, man. You’ve had a lot on your mind.”

 

Connor only shrugs, but he looks a little less sad. Maybe it’s bad that he just looks drained and broody instead, but at least he’s not quite shitting on himself anymore. Little victories.

 

His fingers twitch and fidget. “Want me to drive?” Gavin asks. Connor nods and hops out of the car in a blink. He plays with his dinky little quarter once he’s on the passenger side, but the movements look sort of rough and jerky, like his hands are shaking. Yeah, android or not, it’s better that he’s not at the wheel.

 

They drive for a little while before landing at some seedy backstreet pub. It’s got a striped awning that’s thick with snowmelt and bird shit and leaves piled up on top, and the sign over the door is faded and almost unreadable. Gavin does a quick lap around the block and parks on the adjacent street, just to be safe, before pulling the key from the ignition and turning over to Connor—who seems to be surveying the area with interest. Getting intel with that big robot brain of his, probably. 

 

“Let me do most of the talking,” Gavin decides. “No offense, Rookie, but you’re autistic as fuck—” he cringes as soon as the words come out of his mouth, though Connor doesn’t react at all. The coldness in his expression is how Gavin knows he’s fucked up. “And shit, man, we don’t judge in this house—but the thing is this shithead’s not gonna play nice. She’s a slimey prick at the best of times, and you’d be an easy target. Not gonna learn jack if she gets fussy on us. Just be quiet and keep your eyes peeled so we can go in and out without trouble, aight?”

 

Connor’s dark eyes look sharp and predatory when he glares, almost enough for Gavin to give under that pissy burst of defiance. He doesn’t get a chance to surrender, though, because Connor does it first. “No,” the android says at length, brows furrowed. “I will observe to start, but if my input is beneficial I intend to contribute. However, I will observe to start.” It’s not a complete concession, but it’s good enough. His LED is flickering fast between yellow and red—and his gaze stays fixed on it in his reflection in the rearview mirror.

 

“She’s gonna notice that.”   
  


“I’m aware.” He hesitates, fingertips pressed against the little button on his head. “Should I remove it?”

 

Gavin shrugs. “Dunno,” he replies. “I don’t think she’ll like you much either way so I don’t give a shit. Do what you want.”

 

Connor opens his mouth then shuts it again. He mouths the words “I want” and seems to come to a decision, because before Gavin can do shit he’s dug his nails under the LED and yanked it from his temple. The scratching motion that gets the job done feels—fuck,  _ crunchy _ , or something, like frames’ve been skipped in a video. It’s a robotic movement, and it makes his skin crawl just watching. The artificial skin peels back beneath Connor’s white fingers, and shit, he’s dug in hard enough to cut thin little furrows in the fucking shell underneath.

 

He can only catch a blink’s worth of blue blood welling up underneath before the wound’s closed again, marked only by two or three thin lines of indented skin, like an old cat scratch. Gavin doesn’t know what the fuck to say. Connor is staring at the little blue button in his hand like it fucked his goddamn mother, but instead of throwing it away he shoves the thing into his pocket with an angry huff.

 

“Yikes,” Gavin can’t help but say aloud. “You sure you’re fuckin’ okay to be doing this?”

 

The android takes a steadying breath before pivoting to look Gavin in the eye. The scrunched-up look on his face slides off like water, and it’s no secret that the ensuing mask is fake as all hell. “I will be fine,” he sighs. Gavin can’t get a read on him. “Let’s just get this over with so we can solve this.”

 

Gavin looks him over one more time, just to be sure. He’s different than he was a week ago. There’s something heavy and grim in his eyes and the set of his brow that Gavin’s seen before. In witnesses, mostly. Sometimes victims. “Fine,” he says. “C’mon, bud.”

 

He elbows the door open and makes his way out across the street without looking—much to Connor’s chagrin. The android trots after him nonetheless, visibly squaring his shoulders and steeling himself as they move towards the bar. He actually gets there a few paces ahead of Gavin, the fucker, and holds the pull-door open for him.

 

“What a gentleman,” he jokes, and Connor’s lip curls faintly in something that might ballpark a smile for the visually challenged. It mostly looks hella fuckin’ uncanny, but Gavin bites his tongue. “Be careful,” he goes on instead, a grin yanking at his own mouth. “We gotta ladykiller on the premises.” His attempts at lightening the mood are shitty. Obviously Connor ignores them.

 

He catches the door behind them so it doesn’t slam, and trails dutifully at Gavin’s heels as they shoulder their way into the bar. It’s kind of dim and shifty even in daylight, a close space filled with warm light and idle bodies, close enough to feel sticky and cramped. A few people lounge around, hunched over their nachos and beer, filling the place with a low hum of conversation. One or two heads lift away from their occupation to watch them come in, but quickly lose interest. Gavin is well aware that he looks like a goddamn biker what with the leather jacket and scars and shit, but that’s not spectacular in a place like this. Eyes linger on Connor’s out-of-place primness for a moment longer, he notices, but they too slide back to what they were doing before. As they fucking should.

 

They ease along the bar until Gavin’s next to an older lady with bleached blonde hair and a deep frown around the neck of her beer. She’s the fucker they came for.

 

“Hey,” Gavin hums, waving the barkeep over. “Gimme a Coors, yeah?” The man tips his head to Connor, who mutters “vodka, blue.” He looks vaguely surprised. Gavin feels that shit. Who the fuck knew, right?—but he gets right to it with a flippant little shrug as if to say “not my business.”

 

Gavin really, really wants to ask what the hell’s up, but they’ve got a job to do. He takes a dainty sip of beer as soon as he gets it, tapping his nails on the neck of the bottle as he turns to their informant.

 

“So,” he sighs. “Long time no see, huh?”

 

Blount laughs roughly around her own drink. “Sure could say so,” she huffs. “I owe you for not bustin’ my ass, I guess.” Her pale eyes land on Connor, who’s been looking over her shoulder with purpose, propelled into Business Mode like a switch flipped.. “Who’s the boy toy?”

 

Looking unimpressed, the android replies without missing a beat. “I am choosing to take that as a compliment,” he sighs, expertly charming, all sharp and unreadable. The barkeep slides his drink over and the fucker knocks it all back in one go, still smooth as butter, before introducing himself. “Connor.”

 

“And he can drink,” Blount praises. “Keeper, this one.” She tips her beer towards Connor and bats her eyes none-too discreetly. “Reed giving you any trouble, hon?”

 

“I’ve disciplined him,” replies Connor with one of those twitchy little smirks, and leaves it that. Gavin’s face fucking burns. Blount laughs raucously, and goddamn if this shithead isn’t playing her like a fiddle with some curt, rugged loner-style charm yanked outta bumfuck nowhere. He’s totally ignoring what Gavin asked him to do, but hell if he isn’t rocking this shit. 

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Gavin shoots Connor a look, and the android nods almost imperceptibly back at him from where he sits on the other side of their contact. “For real though, Carey. You seen those assaults, yeah? Little bird told me you might know some shit about ‘em.”

 

“Dunno about that,” replies Blount, evasively. “But I’ll do you my damn best, Reed.” She scoffs. “So what’s happening? Finally got ‘round to busting some plastics instead of your own kind?”

 

“Har har,” he mocks, patience waning. She likes to play games, he knows, and he planned ahead for it in theory, but that doesn’t make it any less fuckin’ frustrating to sit through it in practice. It’s not like he was expecting her to go ‘oh, yeah, we totally staged this. Want an alphabetical list of names?’ Still, this is the mother of all fucking drags. “Seriously. We’ve got the ‘droid leaders doing some IA shit to find any criminals on their side of the fence, but we can’t pretend there’s no precedent for this kinda hate crime circlejerk on ours.”

 

Blount makes a face. “Are you serious?” Her eyes flit over Connor, appraising, and something about it makes Gavin’s skin crawl. Connor’s a fucking grown-up, though, so he keeps his mouth shut despite the unease rising in his belly. “Why’d you think  _ I _ would know anything about that? I haven’t broke a law!” Aw, fucking hell, she’s making big eyes at him—like he’d cave even if he were human. Bastard’s a lotta things, but a weak link ain’t one of ‘em. (Also, she’s easily twice his age by appearances alone—and counting actual years? Yuck. Age is just a number, but so is 9-1-1.)

 

“Because, Ms. Blount,” the android’s voice is icy as he takes over, “while it may be illegal to discriminate within an official capacity, there is currently no law forbidding bigotry.” He leans in real slow, caging her between him and Gavin—personal  _ space _ , motherfucker! but still—it’s working.

 

Boy toy not lookin’ so pretty to her now, he thinks, that he’s not seeming exploitable.

 

“Fuck, man—” She curls her lip, pale eyes darting from Gavin to Connor and back again. “Listen, I’m not involved in any shit myself. Personally—but—” She swallows hard, shifting beneath Connor’s hard black eyes. “I might know a guy who is. We’ve got the same, uh, dealer. Street pot,” she clarifies, “the happy stuff. We’re legal, I swear.”

 

“Whatever—we’re not here to nitpick your shitty life choices. Keep going,” Gavin prompts, propping elbow on the counter.

 

The anxious tension in her still somewhat—he hadn’t exactly planned on acting good cop today, and he’s not actually particularly nice about it either, but hell if it isn’t refreshing to sorta sit back on this one. Not to mention it’s actually  _ working _ ; she’s just worked up enough to be nervous and spill, but not enough that she’s certain they’ll fuck her over, so nothing gained to close off or to bolt. Got two different kinds of pressure on both sides, so she’s got no choice but to tell ‘em what they wanna know. It’s some evil-genius level shit, maybe.

 

“His name’s Tyler Wilson,” she sighs at length, pinching the bridge of her nose. She takes a very deep swig of beer. “Just lost his job—nothing fancy, crunching numbers for some startup law firm.” She scowls, shifting uncomfortably. “Plastic took it, obviously. He said he’n his buddies were gonna go out and pay some dues, or some shit like that. I dunno the details. Don’t really care.”

 

Gavin looks over her shoulder to meet Connor’s gaze—his face is a creepy fuckin’ mask of a thing. If he didn’t know better, he would be very, very afraid. As it stands, he just raises his eyebrows, questioning. “That’s not really anything we can go on,” he points out, and Connor nods slow.

 

“Detective Reed is right, Ms. Blount.” He leans back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin like a fucking anime mob boss. “Did you, by any chance, overhear something more concrete regarding Mr. Wilson’s plans? Any names, locations?”

 

“Fuck, I dunno.” She shrugs, shoulders pulled up against her ears. She’s trying to look small, but it’s not really working with all the fake pearls and loudly-patterned shawl and shit. “I can give you his address and you can ask him yourself. His buddies used to fight dogs, I think, so you can prolly find ‘em at a ring near there.” Blount gnaws her lip, waves for another drink. “Shithead’s a paranoid stoner, though, so it might take some doin’ to pin him down and get him talking.”

 

“Appreciated,” Connor acknowledges, coldly. “Is that all?” There’s a twitch around his mouth; an artificial muscle jumps in his jaw. He’s fuckin’ angry, Gavin can tell just by looking, but he’s dealing like a champ for the sake of the investigation. Some inspired shit right there—something Gavin thinks he could’ve done well to learn from a few years back. Fucking androids, and all that, always showing off.

 

Still, Blount is hella fuckin’ uncomfortable, and it’s kinda making Gavin’s day, if he’s honest. She’s a weaselly bitch, and a druggie to boot, but she’s not totally stupid—she knows damn well she can’t lie to Connor, and Gavin’s got seniority enough to catch the slippery bits that might slip through the cracks. Flirting won’t work, and neither will evasion, and there’s nowhere to run. She all but goddamn chugs her next beer once she gets it, and wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “I can ask around if Wilson doesn’t pan out,” she finally relents. “But I’m not promisin’ shit, got it?”

 

“Sure thing,” says Gavin. He’s pretty happy with how this’s going, all things considered. Connor needs some goddamn therapy and, himself, Gavin’d fucking love a nap—but at the end of the day, this is good progress, and it’s better than nothing by a long shot. Being good at shit makes you feel good, too, so he’s hoping that maybe it’ll lighten Connor’s spirits, too, if he can nail a breakthrough on this case. 

 

The woman mumbles something about nosy fag cops, swearing beneath her breath, but Gavin pretends not to hear. They’re like, two thirds of a fag max between the two of ‘em, anyway. Connor, the marvelous douche, reaches into his jacket and pulls out this neat little fuckin’ legal pad with a teeny weeny pen loop and everything. Because of  _ course _ he does.

 

“Care to confirm Mr. Wilson’s address, Ms. Blount?”

 

She rolls her eyes, naturally, but gives in without a fight. “Yeah, ok.” Connor definitely scares the shit out of her. “His apartment’s, uh, I think the complex on Tully? Two-oh-three, maybe four.” It’s pretty damn funny to watch this bitch squirm while he pens it out all neat and tidy—and just slow enough to be painfully awkward. Bastard’s doing that on purpose, no doubt.

 

Gavin’s pretty fuckin’ sure the android can just look that shit up, but again, he’s not the one pulling teeth here. “And the…” he curls his lip, making no effort to hide his disgust, “the  _ dog  _ ring?” Just watching the show. It’s probably good that he’s got the energy to be petty, and a deserving outlet to mildly infuriate until she keels over.

 

“Some wad with money,” she spits. “Nice blue house a couple streets over, got a huge-ass basement where they get bets going. Dunno the address, but it’s close. You’ll know it.” Blount crimps her lips into a lemon-worthy sort of grimace as she waves for another refill. “That all, officers?”

 

“Detectives,” Connor corrects blithely, and slides off his barstool. Gavin offers a jaunty salute over his shoulder as he follows suit—this time tailing Connor outta the place.

 

“Hoo-boy,” he praises once they’re outside, easing into something more relaxed as they distance themselves from the pub. “That was some hot shit, tin can.” Just shower him with like, good vibes, or some fucking thing. Gavin doesn’t  _ know _ —just some way to tamp down that lingering smolder of angst and get him distracted good and proper. “I was gonna be pissy about the fact that you stole my thunder, but I fuckin’ can’t, ‘cause that was—I admit it!—pretty goddamn slick.”

 

Connor pauses some, cracking a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you, Reed…” He hesitates, shoving his hands into his pockets as he rounds the corner, Gavin at his side. “It was an interesting experience to approach an informant in this way,” he says. “Satisfying, I believe.”

 

The Asshole Itch: scratched like a pro. Sometimes, being a dick to someone who deserves it is the best shit in the world. Petty stuff’s good, but there’s nothing like Righteous Indignation; Moral Outrage to get the blood pumping nice and hot. It worked for a minute, Gavin guesses, and that’s all he can ask for. He just needs to stick around and keep an eye on Connor, make sure he’s okay, and shit. (He sort of owes him that much, after everything.)

 

Gavin’s not naive enough to expect the good shit to last. Connor gets somber again on the drive back to the precinct, and he responds tersely at best to any attempts at conversation—even about the damn case, and that’s kinda sad. When asked what he thinks of Blount, he immediately asserts that “I dislike her.” There’s a sharpness to his voice when he says it, fingers tense on the wheel.

 

“Ah,” says Gavin, and he’s not a total dipshit. He moves on. “Didn’t know you drank,” he notes. “Since when could you do that?”

 

Connor sighs. “I was designed to be able to consume human food in small amounts for undercover purposes, but that wasn’t actually alcohol. Modified thirim,” he explains at Gavin’s questioning look. Fuck, that’s kinda cool, actually.

 

“How’s it work? You can get drunk, right?”

 

“In theory,” he says. “It carries a packet of modified code that allows an android’s nervous system to simulate inebriation; a diagnostic stasis cycle will flush it out, but cognitive and coordinative faculties are diminished until then.”

 

Uh, Gavin doesn’t care for that shit. It seems just a little fuckin’ familiar, the whole ‘drinking to cope’ thing that looks to be rearing its ugly head. Yeah, Connor’s a ‘droid, and it was only one drink, but still. “Should you be, uh, driving?”

 

“I’m perfectly competent,” replies Connor, patiently. “Your concern is appreciated, but it would take another one point two four drinks at the same volume and concentration to get me tipsy enough to be impaired.” 

 

And that’s that, he guesses. It’s getting to be noontime, the sun high up. “Alright,” Gavin says, a little absently. “I’m gonna dig up what I can on this Wilson motherfucker when we get back. Can you update the case file before you go?”

 

Connor takes his eyes off the road to blink at him, mouth parted. “Go?” He echoes. “Before I go? I’ll be going with you.”

 

“Nah,” counters Gavin, like a goddamn pro. “You need a nap, shitstick. Go home and put on somethin’ comfy and watch reruns of late night TV from the 2016 election, if that’s what floats your boat, but you gotta fucking rest.” Also, Lieutenant Fuckwad will be in, probably, and he kind of doesn’t like the idea of Connor dealing with that shit. Whether it takes a foster home or a retreat to your sexy brother’s apartment, any retreat from this clusterfuck is good enough.

 

“I am not ill,” Connor says, eerily cool. He’s wearing his Interrogator Voice, some thorny warning edge coiled up under his breath. “I am not ill and I am not impaired, Detective Reed. I will work my full hours.” They pull into the precinct lot in silence.

 

Connor really does look like a real boy, tiny creases under his eyes and between his eyebrows and all that shit. He looks straight ahead out the windshield, fists clenched in his lap. “I am fine,” is all he growls before he opens the door and gets out of the car, leaving Gavin to sit there and know with exactly one hundred and two percent certainty that this fucker is gonna do something horrifically stupid.

 

And that’s  _ his _ job, god dammit.

 

He fumbles to get the passenger’s side open, circling in front of the car to intercept. “Woah now,” he snaps, grabbing the android by the corner of his unzipped windbreaker. “Slow the fuck down!”

 

Connor wrenches effortlessly away, striding forward with that big screen-worthy swagger like a movie cop, unperturbed. Gavin hadn’t thought of Connor as the type to lash out when the going got tough, but then again—he hadn’t pinned the guy as much of anything until recently. All the cheerful nagging house-husband shit he had going on with Anderson kind of made Gavin imagine he was the tears and puppy eyes type. Bared teeth and steel tendons and the memory of getting his ass handed to him on a fucking platter makes him think differently, in retrospect. Duh.

 

Or maybe he’s both, or neither. Still figuring out who he’s gonna be. That’s fair.

 

Fuck, the point is that it was an absolute shit plan to head out today, and Gavin should’ve caught that the second he learned what was up. They did something, and Connor got out and distracted, but that was temporary, and it wasn’t worth it. Connor didn’t need this. “Yo!” He calls, jogging lightly to catch up with the taller android. “Oi, I’m talkin’ to you! Motherfucker!”

 

The android stops, leaving Gavin to smack his dumbass face into him like a brick wall between him and the door to the precinct. “I will do my work,” Connor growls over his shoulder. “And I will go back to Nines’ apartment—when my tasks are  _ done _ .” His tone softens, but he does not turn around. “This…  _ incident _ .” He hisses the word with soft vitriol. “This incident will not take this from me, too. No more.”

 

His eyes are pleading, liquid brown like a goddamn kicked puppy. Who’s Gavin to say no to that. “Fuck,” he swears. “Fine. Okay. Just—don’t bite your nose to spite your face, or however the saying fuckin’ goes. I don’t fucking remember.” He swallows hard. “Just don’t hurt yourself. I actually don’t hate having you around, dipshit.”

 

“I know,” says Connor, and then he herds Gavin back into the building, and they don’t say anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading this far ;; please let me know what you think!!!


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